


Not Lost But Found

by embroiderama



Category: White Collar
Genre: Angst, F/M, Injury, Kidnapping, Presumed Dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 17:06:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2158518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embroiderama/pseuds/embroiderama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter’s been kidnapped before, but this time is worse. This time, he believes he’s lost everything until Neal arrives with back-up and first-aid and the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Lost But Found

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for an excellent [picture prompt](http://whitecollarhc.livejournal.com/226813.html?thread=1496829#t1496829) from [](http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/)**kanarek13** in the Comfest 2014 challenge. Go look at the pic—it’s gorgeous, and it’ll show you that this is all about Peter angst.

Peter’s head ached fiercely, a sharp-edged throb that started from above his ear on the left side of his head and radiated around his head. From the way the dim little room had pitched around him when he’d tried to sit up, he thought he probably had a concussion but it didn’t matter. The injury was minor. Temporary. The other pain, the sick agony that burned from his gut up to his throat and pressed behind his eyes, Peter knew he would carry that inside him long after the head injury was healed and forgotten. Assuming he lived that long.

It had been an ordinary night; he and Elizabeth read for a while in bed before turning out the lights and falling asleep. Whoever broke into the house had to be one hell of a professional because there had been no warning from Satchmo or from the alarm system, no sound to wake them before it was too late. Peter had slept soundly while a man entered his home, climbed his stairs and opened his bedroom door. He woke to the hissing pop of a bullet shot through a silencer and only opened his eyes in time to see the shadowed movement of the gun as it swung toward his head, and then there was nothing.

When he woke, nauseated and disoriented, he felt the pain in his head and the pull in his shoulders and wrists from his hands bound behind his back. He opened his eyes and saw nothing but a gray concrete floor and, about a foot away from his head, a piece of paper. No, a photograph. A Polaroid. Peter wriggled closer, pushing himself with his unbound feet, and picked up his head just enough to see what kind of message had been left for him.

He blinked his eyes, struggling to understand what he was looking at, and then it became clear. The Polaroid showed a familiar scene: El in bed, wearing the pink fleece pajamas she preferred on cold nights. She was curled on her side, the shape of her body clear even under the layered covers she always gathered around herself during the night, her hair a dark wave across the pillow behind her head. On the side of her head, just at the spot where he loved to smooth her hair back from her temple, was a gunshot wound, lurid even in the poor resolution of the instant photo. Dark blood stained the pillow around her face, and Peter had seen enough crime scene photos to fill in the rest of the picture, the gruesome exit wound hidden behind the almost serene image in front of him.

Dead. DEAD. Peter’s eyes burned and his stomach cramped as he struggled to sit up straight. “WHY?” Shouting made his head hurt worse, and there was no answer, just the dull sound of his own voice around him. “WHY? WHY?” He shouted through sobs until his breath caught in his chest and the room turned darker around him as he passed out.

When he became conscious again, Peter didn’t bother trying to sit up. He lay on the rough concrete and stared at the side of the Polaroid while the chill of the floor seeped through the thin cotton of his pajamas. He knew that people would be looking for him, and he thought that if he worked at it enough he could make his way over to a wall and push himself up to stand. Somebody would come eventually, either his kidnappers or the FBI, and he thought that he should want to meet them on his feet, like a man. The problem was that he didn’t care; he would be a ruin of a man no matter how they found him. Peter pushed himself a few inches closer to the photo then rested his cheek on the slick, plastic square.

He thought that he should be raging for revenge, but he felt too empty to manage even that. He looked at the bare, gray concrete in front of his face and drifted in the soupy fog of his pain.

~~~

Some indistinguishable amount of time later, Peter heard the snick of a door unlocking. He didn’t hear the noise that would be likely to accompany a rescue team, so he just stayed where he was and waited for a shot in the head or a kick in the gut or some kind of explanation. Whichever it was, it wouldn’t make any difference. He heard a few quick footsteps and then his name, whispered roughly.

“Peter!” Neal stage-whispered again, and Peter opened his eyes to see Neal’s shoes in front of his face. Neal knelt down and put a hand on Peter’s shoulder. “Hey, the team is here, but they need some time to secure everybody upstairs. I didn’t want to wait.” He hissed and reached toward the wound on Peter’s head but didn’t touch it. “That looks nasty. Are you okay?”

Peter wanted to be strong, but he shook his head. He felt the Polaroid under his cheek slide against the floor, and it was too much. “No,” he said. “No.” He bit his lip as his voice shook and threatened to turn into a sob.

“You’ll be okay, just hold on.” Neal moved around to Peter’s other side, and after a moment Peter felt the bindings on his wrists fall away. “You’re freezing. Come on, let’s get you off of the floor.” Peter let Neal tug him up until he was sitting with his back against the wall, and he watched as Neal shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it around Peter’s shoulders. “Look, there are EMTs waiting down the street, but I brought some supplies. Are you hurt anywhere other than your head?”

Peter shook his aching head, rolling it against the wall behind him.

“Okay, this might help a little bit.” Neal pulled a chemical cold pack out of his bag and kneaded it before placing it in Peter’s hand. “Can you hold this on yourself? I’m going to see if I can find anything else to help warm you up.”

Peter raised his hand to press the cold pack against the wound on his head then called out as Neal rose from the floor. “Wait!”

Neal crouched in front of Peter again. “What?” Neal ran his gaze over Peter, then frowned. “Peter, did they do something else to you? Other than the obvious?”

“El—I—“ Peter’s throat locked up, and he didn’t know how to ask. Was she being taken care of? Where was she? Could he see her?

“I’ll make sure they take you to the same hospital where she is.”

Peter closed his eyes, imagining his beautiful wife on a slab in the morgue. Or worse, her heart beating in a mockery of life. “Who did this?” Peter asked, barely able to put any sound to the words as he moved his lips. “Who killed her?”

“ _Killed_? What are you talking about?”

Peter opened his eyes to see the honest confusion on Neal’s face, and he gestured at the Polaroid that was on the floor a few feet away. He watched as Neal picked up the photo, and his face paled as he took it in but then he shook his head. “No. Peter, no, this didn’t happen.”

“Please don’t lie to me, Neal. I can’t—“ Peter shivered hard.

“I’m not.” Neal knelt down and put his hand on Peter’s shoulder. “I saw Elizabeth an hour ago. She was groggy, they chloroformed her, but she’s fine.” Neal squeezed his shoulder. “She isn’t hurt. She’s worried about you, though.”

Peter wanted to believe, but he couldn’t let himself be tricked when learning the awful truth again would break him. “Can’t Photoshop a Polaroid. And I heard the gunshot.”

Neal examined the photo again. “This isn’t Photoshop, this is a more old-fashioned kind of fake. There was a bullet hole on the wall near your bed, and I’m willing to bet that you have a pillow missing and that there were traces of make-up or latex on Elizabeth’s face.”

Peter shook his head again, terrified to believe, and Neal put a hand on Peter’s cheek to still his motion. The touch was warm, and Peter let himself lean into it as he met Neal’s eyes. “She’s alive. I don’t lie to you, and you’d know if I did. Let me try something.”

Neal took the warmth of his hand away from Peter’s face, but he kept his other hand on Peter’s shoulder as he pulled out his phone and made a call. “Cindy? No, Agent Burke is okay, but can you connect me to the agent who’s with Mrs. Burke?” Neal met Peter’s eyes again and nodded as he waited. “Hi, this is Neal Caffrey, Agent Burke’s CI. Is there any way you can get Mrs. Burke on the line?” After another pause he added. “Tell them it’s important. Please.”

Then Neal hit something on his phone’s screen and put the phone down on Peter’s knee. “Elizabeth? I’m here with Peter.”

“Hon!” El’s voice sounded sleepy but alive and okay, and something between a laugh and a sob bubbled up from Peter’s chest. “Honey, are you okay?”

Peter swallowed hard and tried to steady his voice. “I’m okay. I love you. I—“ Peter put a hand over his eyes to push back the tears and the resurgent pain of his headache, and he felt Neal pick up the phone.

“He’s safe. We’ll see you soon, okay?” Gentle fingers pried the ice pack from Peter’s hand. “That’s enough cold for now. The team should be down here any minute, and we’ll get you out of here.”

Neal moved to stand up, but Peter reached out with both hands and pulled him close. He wrapped his arms around Neal’s back, soaking in the warmth and the truth of him, and felt the knot of grief in his chest give way to relief. “Thank you,” he said, and he didn’t care that his voice shook. “Thank you , oh god, thank you.” Peter heard the door open, and as he looked over Neal’s shoulder he saw the relieved, confused looks on the faces of his team. His head ached, and his body was sore, but all he could do was smile.

  
art by[](http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/profile)[ **kanarek13**](http://kanarek13.livejournal.com/)</s>

**Author's Note:**

> This story has a timestamp [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2166360/chapters/4737237).


End file.
